


To Catch A Flame

by bibliolatry



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Arson, Attempted Murder, Codes & Ciphers, Confused Sherlock, Homoeroticism, Kidnapping, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Murder, Mystery, Pyromania, alternate universe - no moriarty, different side of sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2013-10-23
Packaged: 2017-12-26 00:34:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/959458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bibliolatry/pseuds/bibliolatry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A serial arsonist is on the loose and it’s up to Holmes and Watson to find the pyromaniac murderer. Settle in for the newest adventure of the boys from 221B Baker Street.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I will admit now that I am not the best Sherlockian author. I've got a couple one-shots (and a three-shot) posted on wattpad that I am considering bringing here, but I would like to get some opinions on this first. Please let me know what you think. Thank you.
> 
> *This is a work in progress*

As was typical of a day in 221B Baker Street, the two men sat in their respective chairs. In John’s hands sat “Brothers Karamazov” by Fyodor Dostoevsky, while Sherlock, squatting in his chair with his fingertips pressed against his lips in a steepled manner and his eyes closed, was off in his mind palace. They lived in a companionable silence that worked well for them. It’s just the way it was.

A shrill ping echoed through the silence and John cast a quick glance at Sherlock who remained in his position completely ignoring the sound. John returned his attention to the book he’d been reading for two days now. He still had a ways to go and the book itself was rather intriguing. It certainly made one think.

Another ping echoed and Sherlock let out an annoyed sigh. “John, would you get that?”

John looked up from his book again, a brow raised in Sherlock’s direction. “It’s your phone and it’s right next to you on the table.”

Sherlock made no move to grab the phone and kept his eyes closed. “John, get the phone.”

John huffed in annoyance and placed his bookmark between the pages. He pushed himself up from his chair and stomped the two feet across the room to where Sherlock’s phone rested on the coffee table directly in front of the infuriating man. He picked it up and looked at the two texts, both from Detective Inspector Lestrade.

Sherlock, we have a case, the first one said.

Sherlock, are you coming, was the second.

John rolled his eyes. He glanced up at Sherlock, who hadn’t moved a muscle, and rolled his eyes again before texting Lestrade for the address.

“Come along,” he said and turned for the door, grabbing his jumper on the way knowing Sherlock would be right behind him.

The men stepped out from 221B and Sherlock raised his hand to hail a cab. Sherlock climbed in first, followed quickly by John who gave the cabbie the address they were headed to. They remained silent throughout the journey, both looking out their respective windows as the city of London passed by. In Sherlock’s mind, he was deducing every person his eyes landed on. In John’s, he was wondering, for the umpteenth time, how he managed to tolerate the worlds only consulting detective.

When they arrived at the scene, Sherlock jumped from the cab immediately, leaving an annoyed John to pay the fair and follow after him. John walked up on Sherlock and Lestrade discussing the case. A murder, Sherlock’s favorite. John couldn’t help the small smile that crossed his face as he thought about how excited Sherlock would get. 

“What’s there to smile about, freak two? It’s a murder scene,” Donovan’s voice cut into John’s revere and he couldn’t help but roll his eyes. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately.

“Nothing of your concern. Go bother Anderson,” John said snippily before storming across the scene to where Sherlock was examining the woman’s body.

“John, take a look,” Sherlock said as he raised himself from his crouching position.

John wouldn’t argue. It was pointless. Time and again he’d given his opinion on cases and Sherlock had more or less shut him down. On the rare occasion he’d ‘got something right’, Sherlock barely acknowledged it, doing no more than a quick quirk of his lips in an upward manner.

John knelt beside the body, pulling on a pair of latex gloves so he could begin his examination. His eyes grazed over the nude form, taking in everything he could. He picked up her hands, no signs of a struggle there. He wedged his fingers under her body and tilted it a bit to get a look at her backside. Gravel and scrapes lined along her upper back, she was dragged by her feet to the location. He allowed her body to rest against the ground again and continued his inspection. All jewelry removed, the wide band of pale skin on her ring finger on her left hand informed him she was married. Her hair was dirty, greasy; she’d been kept somewhere for a good while before she was killed and dropped off here.

But how was she killed?

John stood and turned to Sherlock. The other man stared at him with a blank expression. John knew he was waiting for him to start his deduction, but John wasn’t in the mood to have his opinion ignored, so he just stared at Sherlock in silence.

“Ahem,” Lestrade cleared his throat, breaking the staring contest between the two men. “Anything?”

“John?” Sherlock asked, raising a brow.

John sighed and rolled his eyes… again. “She was held captive for a bit, as seen in her unwashed hair and the dirt smudges across her body; likely kept nude. I see no signs of a struggle, and no signs of bullet or knife wounds. No marks to show she was strangled in any way; likely a poisoning. The marks on her wrists suggest she was handcuffed rather than tied up with rope. The marks on her back indicate she was dragged here after she was killed, though we’re likely far from the location of her actual death.”

Sherlock stared a John a moment before turning back to study the body some more.

“You’ve been spending too much time together,” Lestrade declared.

“You heard the man,” Sherlock muttered before turning away from the body. “Call if you need anything else.” He walked away towards the street.

John watched him go in silence. He would never hear a word of praise from the man, would he? He shook his head at the silly notion. Why would it matter? He started to walk towards where Sherlock stood waiting when a hand on his shoulder stopped him. He turned back to Lestrade, the question clear on his face.

“Don’t let it get to you. He’s always been like that. The fact that he didn’t shut you down immediately is the best you’ll get,” John nodded and turned back to the street.

Sherlock was looking at him, but from the distance, John knew he couldn’t hear what the two men were saying. “Do you think he’ll ever let anyone in?”

Lestrade shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t think we’ll ever know.”

John nodded again and walked away from the DI. He came to a stop by Sherlock, both men remaining silent. Sherlock hailed a cab and the two men climbed in, heading back to Baker Street.

“You’re learning,” Sherlock spoke softly and John wondered briefly if he’d misheard.

He looked at Sherlock, but the other man kept his head turned towards the window, giving nothing away. The rest of the ride was filled with silence. John wasn’t quite sure what he’d heard, nor was he sure how to respond. Sherlock was trying to figure out why he’d felt it necessary to say such a thing.

Back at 221B Baker Street, Sherlock rushed from the cab and into the flat. John paid the cabbie, tossing a quick ‘thank you’ his way before following after his friend. He made his way up the stairs and entered their flat to see Sherlock laying on the sofa, hands templed, fingertips pressed against the bottom of his upper lip and his eyes closed lightly. Even from where he stood, John could see Sherlock’s eyes moving under his lids. Sherlock had entered his mind palace again.

John let out a sigh and moved into the kitchen. He set up the kettle and pulled down two mugs. He reached for the sugar bowl and pulled the lid off to make sure they had plenty. As soon as he looked into the bowl, an annoyed grunt left his lips.

“What the bloody hell, Sherlock. Are these teeth?” John turned to stare at Sherlock in disbelief.

Sherlock hummed, but made no other move to acknowledge his flat mate. John stormed across the apartment and pulled Sherlock up by his lapel. Sherlock’s eyes flew open in shock. 

“Why are there teeth where sugar should be? I’ve dealt with heads, eyes and fingers in the refrigerator and microwave. I’ve found toes, and even a whole foot once, in jars all over the apartment. There’s been hair frozen in blocks of ice in the freezer. I’ve come home to a bathtub filled with bloody water. When does the insanity end?”

By the time John was finished ranting, his face was red and splotchy. He slowly released Sherlock’s shirt and the latter sat back down on the couch. He stared up at John in shock, not sure where the outburst had come from. They’d lived together for going on five months now, surely John should be used to the unusual happenings in the flat. Sherlock had informed him from the beginning he was hard to get along with, but he thought John would be different. Hell, John had started out different than any other person he’d met. The first person to call him ‘brilliant’ rather than ‘freak’.

“I’m sorry, John,” that surprised both of them. They stared at each other, eyes wide, mouths agape, not moving an inch.

Eventually John let out a sigh and turned back to the kitchen. He shut the kettle off before it even had a chance to boil and turned back to where Sherlock sat staring at him. He shook his head and turned towards the stairs.

“I’m going to bed. Goodnight, Sherlock.”

“Are you angry?”

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”

“Goodnight, John.”


	2. Chapter 2

Heat blazed through the small, one bedroom cottage on the outskirts of London as the young woman struggled against her restraints. Her screams were muffled by the rag shoved into her mouth and covered by duct tape. Tears streamed from her eyes.

The fire crackled and popped as it edged closer to the bed, it's blaze reflecting in the poor girls eyes. A dark chuckle from the opposite side of the room brought the woman’s attention to a figure in the shadows by her bedroom door. A chill ran down her spine. She knew she'd die that night.

"Gregory says hello, Claire," the mans gruff voice barked out before he laughed and sauntered from the room.

As the fire continued to build, Claire's body produced more and more sweat and eventually the duct tape came off. She managed to push the cloth from her mouth with her tongue and her screams broke free just as the fire began to lick at her right side. Her screams echoed through the otherwise silent night.

A neighbor, who happened to be a rather light sleeper, heard the scream. The smell of fire had her calling emergency services as she ran from her house and stared in horror at the now blazing inferno that was once her young neighbors cottage. She gagged as the smell of burning flesh and hair wafted into her nostrils. Tears rolled down her cheeks as the realization of what that meant finally sank in.

***

We have a case, the text from Lestrade stated, twenty year old female, died in fire.

"If they have the cause of death," Sherlock grumbled, "what do they need me for?"

John rolled his eyes, really becoming an unnecessary habit, and glanced sideways at Sherlock as the cab passed through the streets of London. "Perhaps there's more to it than what he sent."

"But what?" Sherlock asked, looking over to John.

"Well, I wouldn't know, would I? We haven't made it to the scene yet?"

Sherlock huffed, crossing his arms over his chest and turning back to the window. He mumbled something under his breath, but John couldn't make it out. He was acting childish again, and the thought crossed John's mind, AGAIN. How do I put up with him?

As per usual, Sherlock rushed from the cab before it had stopped completely, leaving John to pay the cabbie and follow behind him. The street had been blocked off a good four cottages down from the scene and John traipsed along at a slower than normal pace, taking in the neighborhood. If one were to ignore the obvious issue here, the place seemed like a pleasant enough environment.

"John, will you hurry up?" Sherlock called to him.

John raised his hand in acknowledgement and quickened his pace to a light jog. He made it to the pathway that lead up to the burnt cottage and came to a stop just beside Lestrade and Sherlock. The two men were conversing lowly, so John stood to the side, his eyes trained on the house. To him it looked like a normal house fire, but John new Lestrade wouldn't call them in on something so trivial.

A sniffle behind him brought John's attention to a woman sat in the back of an ambulance, a shock blanket wrapped around her shoulders and a wad of tissue pressed against her red nose. Her face appeared to be blotchy and from what he could see of her eyes, they were rimmed with red and puffy. Obviously, she'd been crying.

John slowly made his way over to her, stopping to the side. He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder and bent down to her level. "I'm sorry to bother you. Did you know the resident?"

The woman looked up at him and nodded. "Lived next to her for a year, since her aunt passed away and she moved in. She was left the house in her aunts will. Only living relative, and all that," she waved her hand about for a moment before bringing the tissue back to her nose. "She was a sweet girl, kept to herself. I'd often see her sitting on her porch with a cup of tea and a book. Very pleasant to be around, not very chatty, but when she talked, you could tell she was smart. She wanted to be a doctor," the woman began to sob again and John did his best to console her.

"Can you answer just a couple more questions for me?" he asked once she'd calmed down. The woman nodded, so he continued. "Do you know if she was having trouble with anyone? Has she been fighting with a friend, or maybe a boyfriend or girlfriend?"

The woman tilted her head a bit, thinking for a moment. "Actually, I believe she'd just broken up with some young man. I never was very fond of him. Very controlling young fellow. Not right for her at all."

"Do you know his name?" John asked, his interest piqued. If Lestrade had called, then this was a murder and all the little bits of information he could get would help.

The woman considered this for a moment before shaking her head. "No, I can't seem to remember. He was tall, though. Dark hair. Never really met him, so I couldn't give you more than that. I'm sorry."

"No, no," John reassured her, "you've been more than helpful. Every little bit counts."

"The police said there was a combustible," she said the last word slowly, as though trying to make sure she pronounced it properly. "What does that mean?"

John shook his head. "I really can't talk about that, I'm sorry."

She nodded her head. "That's fine, I understand."

"Thank you," John squeezed her shoulder gently before returning to Sherlock and Lestrade.

"Get anything?" Sherlock asked as he turned to acknowledge John's presence.

"A bit. She just had a bad break-up. Not sure if it'll help, but it's there."

Lestrade nodded, "More than my men got."

John turned to Lestrade with curious eyes. "What do you mean?"

Lestrade shrugged. "She was a blubbering mess when Donovan questioned her..."

Sherlock interrupted, "well there's your mistake right there. You sent Donovan to question her. I wouldn't want to talk to her either."

John shot Sherlock a 'just stop' look and turned his attention back to Lestrade. "Well, what have you lot got?"

"Ah, and now it's getting interesting," Sherlock jumped in. "Apparently there was a starter, John. Can you believe it? It's murder," he said the last bit a little too loud and the woman looked up at them with wide eyes.

"Murder?" she asked and another sob racked her body. "Oh, poor Claire."

John glared at Sherlock and headed back over to the woman. He wrapped his arms around her and rocked her gently until her sobs died a bit. He stood there, whispering soft things as he glared across the way at Sherlock. Sherlock gave him his typical 'what did I do?' look before shrugging and turning back to Lestrade.

"Where do we begin?"

***

“Sherlock, I know you’re a sociopath, but do you think that you could at least try to be more cautious about what you say around certain people?” John asked as he set a cup of coffee in front of Sherlock and plopped into his own chair with his cup of tea. 

“Why?” Sherlock asked, giving him a blank stare. He’d never admit it, but the only person he watched what he said around was John. He didn’t want his doctor to leave him like all the others had. My doctor? What an interesting concept.

John refrained from rolling his eyes for what would have been the tenth time in the past six hours. Sherlock was starting to become unbearable. He briefly considered finding somewhere else to live, but he knew that he’d never be able to leave Sherlock. Something about the man kept John coming back for more, no matter how unnerving and aggravating the man could be.

“Did you see the poor woman?” John asked and Sherlock gave a subtle nod. “How… You know what? Never mind. You’ll always be Sherlock, and that’s never going to change.” Not that I want you to change.

“Is that a bad thing, John?” Sherlock asked, his head tilted slightly. John was vaguely reminded of a curious puppy and had to shake the thought and the smile that threatened to bloom across his face at the mental picture.

“Not always, no,” John finally replied, taking a sip of his tea.

“When is it?” Sherlock asked, genuinely curious as to when John considered him being… well, him… a bad thing.

John looked at Sherlock curiously. He knew the man loved to learn things, but this was one of those things he was sure Sherlock would brush off as being unnecessary information. He’d never guess that Sherlock considered anything John related necessary.

“Like earlier, with that woman, Sherlock. You could have kept your voice down to where she wouldn’t overhear you. You made the situation much worse when you yelled the last bit,” he replied. Though seeing you all giddy made me oddly happy as well.

“I’m sorry,” John looked up at Sherlock in shock. The man kept doing strange things. Sherlock never apologized unless John pushed him to, and then it was usually just to get the person he’d upset to go away and to shut John up about it.

“Are you ill?” John asked, standing up and strolling across the sitting area to press the back of his hand against Sherlock’s forehead.

“No,” Sherlock shook John’s hand off and stood abruptly. “You need to leave. I need to go to my thinking palace. Leave.”

John shook his head and turned to the kitchen. He deposited his tea cup and turned towards the stairs. He paused at the bottom, looking over his shoulder at Sherlock who was already laying on the couch, his eyes closed softly. 

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”

“Goodnight, John.”


	3. Chapter 3

“She was tied down like the first.”

“Thank you, Captain Obvious. Go away, Anderson,” the bored tone to Sherlock’s voice made it obvious he wasn’t in the mood to deal with Anderson, or anyone for that matter. 

Even John wasn’t immune to Sherlock’s snarky remarks that day. It had been two weeks since the last arson victim. There had been a few fires set in seemingly random places since then, but no other deaths. Then there was this. 

Young, early twenties. Skin burnt, jaw set wide; she’d been screaming when she finally passed. Hair singed to the roots, scalp reddened. They’d put the fire out before she’d burnt completely, but she’d been too far gone to save. She died just minutes after the fire was put out. 

“Sherlock,” John’s voice was soft. He didn’t want to annoy the detective.

“John?” Sherlock replied, eyes trained on the body, though he’d stopped taking in information the minute John’s voice penetrated his thoughts. John always seemed to come first. He wasn’t sure when that had come about, but it had ended up being that way at some point. John would always come first.

“Have you got anything?” John asked, keeping his voice soft.

“Not much, though this one is in better condition than the last. Same accelerant used as the last, Coleman fuel, easily obtainable at any camping emporium. Not much to go on there. The addition of a trail of kindling leading to the victims location is new. The last one just used the Coleman fuel, but other than that, the similarities are too great to assume that this is unrelated. The question is, why this woman? Why so great a time frame between the deaths? Where are the similarities between the victims? Do you see them, John?”

John, who had spoken with the gentleman that had called in about the fire, had a couple of ideas, but knew very well that Sherlock already knew all the similarities. So why was Sherlock asking him for his opinion? John was nowhere near as good as Sherlock was at deducing things. 

“They were both tied to furniture. The first her bed, this one a hard-backed chair. Both were in their early twenties. Both had recently gotten out of a ‘not good for them’ relationship. Other than that, I’m not sure, Sherlock.”

“That’s good, John. There’s not much else, though you did miss the most important part…”

“Typical,” Sherlock shot John a quizzical look but continued.

“Both lived on their own and were the only survivors of their respective families. They have no living relatives, John, therefore, no one to worry, to mourn; though I don’t necessarily see the point in that. Human emotions,” Sherlock visibly shivered at the idea, though it was apparent he didn’t notice he’d done so. 

“Not everyone can cut their emotions off like you can, Sherlock. And she does have someone to mourn. Her neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Benson, they seemed rather close to her. Asked if they’d be allowed to see to her burial. Same with Miss Taylor; she wanted to see to the burial of Claire.”

“Really, John? First name basis with the victim? Have you learned nothing?”

John stared at Sherlock for a moment before shaking his head and walking away. He wasn’t in the mood to deal with this side of Sherlock today. He was ready to go home, have a cup of tea and read a good book to get his mind off everything for a while. Sherlock stared after John, wondering if he’d had one of those ‘it’s a bad thing’ moments again. His shoulders slumped lightly, though he didn’t notice it. It seemed the great consulting detective could notice everything about everyone else and get his information spot on, but couldn’t notice the subtle hints of his own person. 

Lestrade watched this exchange, wondering if the two men realized what was obviously happening between them. Sherlock had disappointed John again, and he felt bad about it. It was completely apparent to Lestrade, but Sherlock seemed absolutely oblivious to the notion. He considered talking with Sherlock about it, but remembered they were working a case; a case that needed to be solved before more bodies appeared.

“Sherlock? Have you got anything?” Lestrade asked walking over to the man. 

“You heard everything, Lestrade. I know you were listening to us. Do you think he’s mad again?”

“Again?” Sherlock turned to Lestrade and nodded. “I didn’t know he was mad the first time, how would I know? Seemed more disappointed to me.”

Sherlock placed a hand to his chest, rubbing at the ache that was developing. He had a confused look on his face and stared off in the direction John had wandered to, watching the man climb into a cab, no doubt heading back to Baker Street. A million thoughts flashed through his mind, none sitting for long, every one focused on John. What had he done? How could he fix it?

He turned to Lestrade, mouth open to speak. He shut his mouth when he noticed the small smirk on the other man. What was going on in Lestrades’ mind? He raised a questioning brow, but the other man just shook his head.

“Go home, Sherlock. I’ll text if we find anything.”

Sherlock nodded his head. The majority of the road had been blocked off for the investigation, so once he’d moved to the other side of the police tape, he’d just wandered the rest of the short way to the corner to hail a cab. He would have walked, but that would have taken a few hours and he wanted to get home so he could talk to John. About what, though? He was utterly befuddled. This was all new to him. 

***

“John, are you in?” Sherlock called as he opened the door. He stopped in his tracks as he noticed John asleep in his chair, his head leaned back over the headrest and a book laid open on his chest, his palms pressed into the cover. A soft smile spread across Sherlock’s lips as he looked over his doctor. There was that thought again. My doctor. Where was all this coming from. Sure he’d called John his blogger before, but that’s what the man was. He was his companion, he wrote about their cases and posted them to his blog so others could read about their adventures. It wasn’t any sort of term of endearment, but my doctor seemed to mean a bit more than my blogger. 

John snorted and sat up straight, his bleary eyes taking in the sight of Sherlock standing in the doorway. The other man moved into the flat, shutting the door behind him. John rubbed at his eyes with one hand, straightening in the chair as he placed the book on the coffee table with the other. He turned to follow Sherlock with his eyes as the other man moved into the kitchen.

“Tea?” he asked and John hummed his agreement. 

Sherlock bustled about in the kitchen preparing them both a cup of tea. He handed John his and made his way around the table to his own chair. The two men sat in silence, sipping their tea and staring about the room. It wasn’t awkward. It was never awkward, but it did seem different than usual, though neither could place why.

“Are you mad at me, John?” Sherlock finally found himself asking. He couldn’t stand the thought of John being mad and eventually leaving him. 

“No, Sherlock. Never mad, just…”

“Disappointed?” Sherlock guessed, using the word Lestrade just a little over an hour earlier.

John nodded, that seemed to be the most appropriate term for how he was feeling. He looked at Sherlock, really looked at him. The man seemed to be upset about something, but he couldn’t figure out what would upset the great Sherlock Holmes.

“I want to ask why, but I feel as though that would disappoint you more. I should know why, shouldn’t I?” John nodded. “But, I don’t know why, John. Will you tell me?”

John considered this for a moment. Why was he disappointed in Sherlock? Was it that he still was showing a lack of restraint? No, there was no one to really upset at the scene, the neighbors had been moved to the other side of the police line before Sherlock had been allowed near the body. What was it?

“I think…” he started then shook his head. “No, never mind, Sherlock. Don’t worry about it.”

“But,” Sherlock stopped John as he started to get up from his chair. “If you don’t tell me what it is, how can I fix it?”

John stared at Sherlock, his face clearly showing how bewildered he was. What was going on with Sherlock? He wanted to fix what he’d done? Where had this side of Sherlock come from? This was starting to get too weird for John.

“We’ll talk tomorrow, Sherlock. I’m tired. I’m going to bed,” John rose from his chair and moved into the kitchen.

“Please, John,” John froze, the tea cup just skimming the bottom of the sink where he’d been about to place it. He turned to look at Sherlock with wide eyes. 

“What?” he asked, the disbelief clear in his voice. “Who are you and what have you done with my friend?”

“Am I still your friend, John?” Sherlock asked as he, too, rose from his chair and made his way into the kitchen. He came to a stop not too far from John, but far enough that it wouldn’t be uncomfortable for the other man. What he wanted to do was pull John into a hug, wrap his arms around the man and hold him close. These thoughts startled him.

“Of course you are, Sherlock. What on earth would make you think differently?”

“I’ve been disappointing you a lot lately.”

“You always do something to disappoint someone, Sherlock. What makes this any different?”

“I…” Sherlock cocked his head to the side, the image of a puppy Sherlock flashing through John’s mind again. “I don’t really know. I’m a little confused. I need to go to my mind palace. Goodnight, John.”

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”


	4. Chapter 4

“That’s three within seven weeks, Sherlock. Have you gotten anywhere?” Lestrade asked as they surveyed the scene before them. 

The house was still smoking, though the fire had been out for a good forty-five minutes. This time, it was a man. What they had thought to be his pattern had been broken. They fire brigade had arrived early enough to save a good portion of the house. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the portion that the man was in.

“Approximately forty years of age, never married, no children, only living relative would be his sister; someone should call her. Same accelerant, no kindling this time. Absolutely no clues left behind. This guy is a professional pyromaniac. Fascinating.”

“Fascinating? Really, Sherlock?” Lestrade shot Sherlock an exasperated look. He took a moment to glance around the scene and a look of confusion crossed his face as he turned back to Sherlock. “Where’s John?”

“Hmm?” Sherlock hummed. “Oh, at home resting. Caught a bit of a chill.”

“Strange seeing you without him,” Lestrade commented and Sherlock just hummed again.

Sherlock stood from his crouching position above the charred body. “Well, if you find anything else, let me know.”

“Yup,” Lestrade acknowledged before turning back to his team.

Sherlock walked away from the scene and down the street a ways to catch a cab. He’d planned on heading straight home, but somehow found himself at a shop. He stared at the doors for a moment before he entered and wandered up and down the aisles contemplating his reason for stopping there. His eyes landed on some cans of soup and an almost unnoticeable smiled drifted across his face before he covered it with his usual emotionless mask. He grabbed a couple cans of soup and walked down a few more aisles before he came across some crackers. He paid for his items and finally headed home, opting to walk there this time.

***

“John,” Sherlock called as he entered the flat. He was met with silence. “John?” he called louder and was rewarded with a grunt that sounded as though it had come from upstairs. “In his room,” he mumbled to himself.

He moved into the kitchen and grabbed a pot from a cabinet. He set up the soup to heat and put the kettle to boil. He grabbed a tray from the cupboard and set it in an empty spot on one of the counters. 

“Bowl, spoon, tea cup… What else?” he stalked around the kitchen trying to make sure he had everything he needed.

John stood frozen in the doorway to the kitchen. How Sherlock hadn’t noticed him yet was beyond him. He was still trying to come to grips with the fact that Sherlock had gone and got him soup and was currently warming it for him. It had just been a minor sore throat and a bit of a cough. He wasn’t that bad off, but it touched him that Sherlock had thought to get him soup… and crackers?

“Oh, John,” Sherlock exclaimed as he turned and finally caught sight of John standing in the doorway. “Go and have a seat. I’ll be right out.”

John nodded and made his way through the kitchen and into the sitting room. He plopped into his chair and stared blankly at the wall. He was still trying to wrap his mind around this new side Sherlock was showing.

***

Sherlock looked down at the body that lay half under the overturned bed. Her auburn hair had been cut nearly completely off and the strands lay around the room in seemingly random piles. Her green eyes lay open, cloudy and lifeless. Her arm had been positioned so it covered her bare chest, the mattress covering her from the navel down. 

Sherlock’s eyes roamed the room, locking onto a slip of paper turned face down on a table set up in the corner. The drag marks along the carpet showed the table had been moved recently. The lack of anything else other than that slip of paper on the table showed it’s importance to the situation. Sherlock made his way over to the table, Lestrade and John trailing behind. He pulled on a pair of latex gloves and picked up the paper, flipping it over.

15 23 4 21 7 5 23 / 12 7 / 12 26 23 / 25 19 5 23

Sherlock turned to look around the room again, noting there were precisely nine piles of hair spread across the floor.

“Ah,” Sherlock breathed out, doing the calculations in his head. “Someone wants to play, Detective Inspector.”

“What’s that?” Lestrade asked, looking over Sherlock’s shoulder. “Bunch of numbers.”

“Code, a Numbered Caesar’s Cipher to be exact. There are nine piles of hair, the key number is nine. Translation: Welcome to the game. Ergo, someone wants to play.”

***

Molly eyed the test tube in her left hand as her right hand gently applied pressure to the dropper, allowing no more than the approximate amount needed to ensure proper testing. The shrill sound of the fire alarm had her jerking her hands apart rather quickly and she nearly dropped the test tube. She looked around for a moment before finally recognizing the sound that had disturbed her work. Discarding the equipment as quick as she could, she made her way along the fire escape route and out of St. Bart’s to the street where a large crowd of patients and hospital personnel were stood across the street. 

“Where is it?” Molly asks as she comes to a stop in front of some of the other lab workers. 

“We’re not certain yet. No one’s said anything and the fire brigade has been notified. They should be here…” a loud siren cuts the man off and they turn to watch the fire truck enter the street, followed by another and one more after that. 

The firemen get to work quickly, the fire is put out, and the patients are returned to their rooms, none worse for the wear. There were a few that had been transferred in the time between the fire alarm going off and the scene being opened to allow patients to return. Those few who needed specialized treatment and would not be able to survive standing across the street while the fire brigade worked.

“I hope everyone’s alright,” Molly mumbled to herself as she walked through the halls towards her lab. 

A shadow moved in the corner of her eye and she turned to stare at the darkened hallway. Nothing there, she thought as she continued on her way. Behind her, a man steps from the hallway and watches her walk away. She fits the bill. He will keep an eye on her. She’d a very interesting being.

***

“Sherlock, is that my computer?” the consulting detective sat on the couch, a laptop propped on the Union Jack pillow that sat in his lap. His eyes were glued to the screen, running left to right then back again over and over. John assumed he was reading something, and his lack of an answer indicated it was something of great interest to him. “What are you reading?”

“Fire setting, Arson, Pyromania, and the Forensic Mental Health Expert,” Sherlock replies absentmindedly. 

“What?” John asks, not sure if he heard right; but, of course, he has. Sherlock is always reading something of a scientific nature. It’s just who he is, what he does.

“I’m fairly certain you heard correctly the first time, John. It’s rather interesting, and has given me more of an insight on our pyromaniac murderer. For instance, did you know that an arsonist isn’t necessarily a pyromaniac? Pyromania is a psychological term, John. Our pyromaniac has a mental disorder. It’s likely that there have been other fires set that we do not know of because they have caused no damage to either structure or person…” the beeping of a phone cut him off and he snagged it from the table. “John, someone’s set St. Bart’s morgue on fire.”

“Think its our guy?” John asked as he grabbed his coat and slipped it on before heading out the door right behind Sherlock.

“Obviously.”

***

There’s another message. This one a bit more difficult to decipher, well, for anyone who wasn’t Sherlock Holmes, it would be. It’s recorded, the small recording device void of fingerprints or any other incriminating evidence.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please keep in mind this story is unedited. This chapter is a filler and this entire story will likely wind up different once I complete the editing after I finish writing it, so please do not hold the crappiness of this chapter against me. Thanks.

John sat in his chair, eyes trained on Sherlock as he traversed his mind palace. Two full days Sherlock hadn’t moved an inch. This guy they were up against, for Sherlock claims that the barely audible breathing present on the recording device made it ‘quite obvious’ the person was a man, was a rather difficult puzzle to solve, even for the great Sherlock Holmes. John wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He glanced down at the paper Lestrade had written the decoded message on.

Can you find me before I get her

It was driving John insane; his attempts at figuring out who the her was. He considered it obvious the next victim would be female, but who. There were no other clues. 

“John, stop. You’re distracting me,” Sherlock’s voice broke through John’s thoughts and he looked up at the other man with a raised brow. “Don’t look at me like that. You know exactly what I mean.”

John rolled his eyes and stood from his chair. “Tea?”

Sherlock hummed his approval, his attention flashing back and forth between the puzzle he was trying to work through and paying attention to John. John made everything a bit more difficult, but Sherlock wouldn’t give him up for the world. John had begun to mean far to much to him.

Sherlock stood from his crouched position, his eyes wide with realization. He glanced into the kitchen, John hadn’t noticed him yet. He squatted back down and positioned himself appropriately for a visit to his mind palace. The slight crack in his eyelids, not enough to be perceptible to someone who wasn’t looking for it, allowed him to follow John’s movements. His eyes trailed over the stretched muscles of John’s shoulders and upper back as he reached for tea cups. 

The jeans, just a bit too tight, flowed with the curvature of John’s ass. Each and every one of those ridiculous knit jumpers; all these little details that made up John, Sherlock memorized every one without even realizing he’d done so. The bluish-grey color of his eyes, nearly the same shade as a freshly blown in storm cloud, was tinted with hints of golden-brown in the right light. The way he smiled, showing just a bit of his top row of perfectly whitened teeth; good dental hygiene. All the little things that a man should not notice about his flat mate; his male flat mate.

“Sherlock?”

His eyes snapped open. When had John returned from the kitchen? Had he really been so lost in thought that his perception of the area around him was hindered? Sherlock looked up at John, a slightly confused look passing over his features.

Sherlock grabs the cup of tea and takes a sip. He just needs a few moments to settle his thoughts; a few moments to rearrange his mind so he can better understand what is happening. Just a few moments.

***

The infant lays on his back in the center of the sitting room. His throat has been slit and multiple stab wounds cover his stomach. His older sister only a few feet away in the same condition. Both have been dead for hours. Neither of their parents can be found. 

Sherlock examines their bodies, insists that John do the same. It’s difficult for John, examining the corpse of children that were alive just a few hours ago. War wasn’t like this. Sure there were the children that were on the other side; the ones that would come up to you pretending they needed help only to release their hold on the grenade they’d hidden from your line of sight. There were the occasional children who would appear seemingly out of thin air and open fire with their AK-47s or other Taliban issued weaponry. These times were devastating, could bring a man to his knees if he didn’t keep his bearings about him.

But this was different. These children were well under the age of a typical Taliban ploy. They were an infant and toddler, the girl no more than three… maybe four, and the boy just over a year. Who could do such a dastardly thing to a child? Where were their parents?

“The mother did it,” Sherlock announced, standing from his squatting position next to the younger child.

“Are you sure?” Lestrade asked, his face showing his displeasure.

“Very. She had a bit of a mental breakdown, hallucinations. Likely thought she was protecting her children from imposters. Husband came home, found them like this, the wife coddling the lifeless body of their son. Took her and left.”

“Shame,” Donovan’s voice floated over from the doorway. “poor kids were just starting their life, really.”

Sherlock said nothing for once, his eyes trained on John’s face. He wanted to see how this was affecting his doctor. John maintained an emotionless mask, his eyes trained on a blank spot on the wall. He didn’t want to be here, to see all this. He turned his head just a bit, just enough to make eye contact with Sherlock. That was all Sherlock needed.

“Call if you need anything else,” Sherlock announced before turning towards the door. He rushed from the room, dragging John along by the sleeve of his coat. 

They made their way back to Baker street in silence, both lost in their own world of thoughts. Sherlock wanted desperately to understand where John was, what he was seeing, feeling in that house. John wanted to forget it all, the image of those two children lying lifeless on their sitting room floor, and the image of a young man who faced a similar fate when he was not yet thirteen. John had done a good job of forgetting that he’d found a friend who’d run into a similar fate when they were just boys themselves. He didn’t want to relive those memories, talking to the police, telling them what he’d found, going to the funeral. It was rather painful.

By the time they made it back to 221B, Sherlock was on edge, the fight between whether to ask John or not was nearly over and ‘ask’ was winning. John made a beeline for his bedroom and closed the door behind him. Sherlock stood at the top of the stairs, staring at the door, willing it to open and grant him entry. He wanted to know more about John, about this thing he couldn’t deduce that was obviously bothering him. He stepped softly across the floor, slowly making his way to the door.

“John,” he called softly, rapping his knuckles against the wood gently. “Are you okay?”

John opened the door enough to peer out, praying his face wouldn’t betray his emotional downfall. “Fine, Sherlock. I’ll be down to make tea in a bit.” He closed the door back before Sherlock could ask anything more.

Sherlock made his way downstairs and set the kettle to boil. He brought two cups of tea up to John’s room and called his name through the door. John opened it a crack and gave a soft smile when he saw him. He opened the door fully and allowed Sherlock to enter. This was a rarity. They almost never entered each others room. That was a place of privacy, a place that wasn’t touched by the eccentricities of the rest of the flat, of the outside world. Their rooms were their safe havens.

“Thank you,” John sighed as he sat on the edge of his bed. “I suppose your curiosity has gotten the better of you and it’s driving you up the wall that you cant figure it out.”

Sherlock tried not to smile, he really did; but the fact that John knew him this well had his lips quirking up just a bit on the edges. He sat silently, not unusual, and patiently, quite unusual, waited for John to begin his story. He wanted to know, but he didn’t want John to feel obligated to tell him. If John were to tell him now that he didn’t want to talk about it, it would annoy him, possibly aggravate him, but he’d respect John’s wishes. Even if he had little to no respect for anyone else, he would always respect John’s wishes.

“I had just turned fourteen. Went across town to visit a friend of mine. We’d always just walked into each others houses, we were that close of friends. When I went in, the house was unusually quiet. I called his name a few times, called out for his parents. Thought for a bit no one was home. I made my way upstairs to his bedroom and, Sherlock, he was just lying there in the middle of his bed. I didn’t know what was wrong at first, couldn’t understand, or maybe I didn’t want to understand. Something like that is harsh on the mind of an adolescent. His throat had been slit, wrists as well. The police came, apparently a neighbor had heard a scream. I hadn’t even realized I’d screamed. They found his mother in her bathroom in the tub, same injuries. They’d both bled to death. Found his father three days later, drinking his life away at a pub. He confessed to everything. He said,” John choked up for a moment, but quickly regained his composure. “He said they weren’t his family, not really. Called them imposters. Swore up and down they had antennae sticking from their heads and webbed fingers. Turns out he had undiagnosed Lewy body dementia coupled with delirium.”

They sat in silence after that. John trying to get over the flashback, Sherlock doing his best to not wrap his arms around John though he wanted nothing more. All he could properly do at the moment was sit there by him, make sure he knew that Sherlock was there, that he wasn’t alone. The rest of the evening was spent in near silence, neither spoke, but they’d eventually moved to the sitting area and the low volume of the television seemed to help both after such a trying day.


	6. Chapter 6

It took a bit for the realization to sink in. John had caught Sherlock staring at him on several occasions, but those were all Sherlock lost in thought, not really staring at him. Something’s different about this time, though. There’s something more. Perhaps it’s the way Sherlock’s eyes dip to his lips; or maybe it’s how his eyes trace over the features of John’s face, taking in every inch, every wrinkle.

John’s started to notice this and Sherlock isn’t quite sure how to stop it from happening. He didn’t want things to get awkward between them, but John seems to have taken over his mind. John’s a distraction; albeit a pleasant one. Sherlock needs to focus. There are lives at stake, John would say. He’d have some argument, some reason as to why Sherlock should care about the lives that could end while he plays this little game. Sentiment. It’s all just sentiment, and sentiment is unnecessary.

“Sherlock?” oh, he’d been caught staring again. Damn. “All right?”

“Hmm?” act as though you’ve been lost in thought. “Oh, quite.”

“Tea?”

“Yes,” turn your head to the wall, act as though you’re trying to figure something out. Seem as though you’re on to something with the case, something that could break it.

John set a cup of tea in front of Sherlock, but didn’t move to return to his chair. He stood there, eyes trained on Sherlock waiting for him to turn his attention back. Sherlock shifts a little, uncharacteristically nervous. He turned his head back to John, a soft smile on his flat mates face. He stared at Sherlock, unblinking, trying to observe, trying to understand. There’s nothing to observe here, John. Go back to the paper or perhaps your book. Go back over there, to your chair.

“Sherlock,” his voice was softer, gentler than it’s been before. Sherlock focused all his attention on John then; the way the man held himself, how he leaned just a bit forward, towards Sherlock.

John’s nervous. Something’s up, but what? What is happening. Focus on the case Sherlock.

A light brush of slightly chapped lips against smooth, pale skin. A barely there whisper of a kiss on the cheek of a man that’s desired far too long. Sherlock can’t handle it. He turns his head, brushes his soft lips against John’s chapped lips. A ghost of a caress. Both remain silent; watching, waiting. John pushes forward, his lips touching with more force, a soft moan escaping; but who from? 

“Sherlock?” John’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. 

Was that all it was? In my mind? It seemed so real, I could feel him here beside me.

“You should sleep,” John, always concerned, always my doctor.

“Can’t sleep, John. Case,” same response as always. Never sleep, never eat. Slows me down. This is just a transport.

“Sleep, Sherlock,” his voice has turned into a command. I’ll never be able to not follow his commands, will I? 

Sherlock stood from the couch and moved to his room. It’s safer behind the closed door. That solid form between their bodies, cut off from temptation. Sleep, just for a bit.

***

Lips against lips, neck, chest, tasting each nipple, skimming along my skin. Gentle kisses, caresses with your tongue, nips from your teeth; it all drives me closer and closer to the edge, to the brink of insanity. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted, how badly I’ve craved. I want you so bad, John; and now, here you are, giving yourself to me, taking from me what no other has.

Fellatio. Your lips wrap around me, your tongue teases me, slipping along my shaft, tracing against my scrotum, brushing my perineum. Never before have I felt anything like this. Oh, God, John. What are you doing to me, this pleasure, this feeling of floating. 

My breathing hitches, my body trembles, I’m getting close. Oh, John. Please, don’t stop. That thing you’re doing with your mouth, with your tongue; please don’t stop doing that. Your performance when it comes to analingus is amazing, John. Did you know you could do that so well? The way your tongue teases my external sphincter, prodding and brushing against the muscles, slowly pushing until you breach; it’s all driving me mad. Your hand stroking my cock, lubed with my own pre-cum, combined with the intense pleasure of your tongue breaching me further, will surely set me off soon. Don’t stop, John. Please.

You pull away, your hand and your mouth leave my body. I didn’t know I could make that sound; that soft keening, that wanton whine. Come back, John. Where are you going? Oh, what is that? Lube? When did you get that, John? You slather it over your fingers, your mouth leaving ghost-like kisses along my inner thigh, running up into the crease where my thigh and hip meet, making your way back to my cock. You pull me into your mouth using only your lips and tongue; your fingers are busy massaging my external sphincter. I know what you plan on doing and I don’t want you to stop. Don’t stop, John.

“Sherlock?” 

Sherlock sat up in bed abruptly, his hands instinctively covering his achingly hard cock. The door was still closed, he breathed out a sigh of relief. He cleared his throat before calling back to John. “Yes?”

“All right? You were calling out.”

“I’m all right, John. Just a dream.”

“Oh. Tea?”

“Please.”

Sherlock took a moment to regain control of himself, willing his body to calm down and relax. His erection wouldn’t go away, so he did the only thing he could think of, he wanked off for the first time in a long while. It annoyed him that he seemed to have lost the control he held over his own body. 

***

Molly made her way down the nearly empty street. Just one more block until she could make her way onto the tube and head for home. The occasional car passing had her ignoring the black sedan that pulled up beside her. She should have been paying closer attention. Sherlock wouldn’t be happy with her lack of observation. 

She got a quick whiff of the pungent, sweet smell of chloroform, not quick enough to hold her breath. As her vision went black, she caught the outline of a person, tall, slender, close-cropped hair. 

She wasn’t awake when the man shoved her body into the trunk of the sedan. She wasn’t aware of her body being tied to a wooden chair when they’d arrived at their destination. She was finally, slowly awakening when the gruff voice of a man addressing ‘Mr. Holmes’ bid his goodbye and the snap of the lense covering the video camera he held echoed through the otherwise silent, cold room.

“Ah, you’re awake, Ms. Hooper. You may as well relax, it’s likely to be a while, though hopefully not too long. Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson have three days. Wouldn’t want to burn you, would we?”

***

John retrieved the mail, juggling the shopping bags in one hand and nudging the unlocked door open with his foot. He trudged up the stairs and into the flat, placing the shopping on the table, which was unusually tidy, before skimming through the mail. There was a small package, addressed to Sherlock, that he set to the side.

“Sherlock? You in?” he called into the seemingly empty flat. 

Sherlock emerged from his bedroom, his deep blue housecoat billowing out behind him as his quick-paced strides brought him through the kitchen and into the sitting room where he lay back on the couch and stared blankly up at the ceiling. John rolled his eyes and turned to fill the kettle so he could make tea. While the water heated, he put away the groceries. The package caught his eye and he tossed it at Sherlock, landing it directly on his chest, before turning back to fix them both a cup of tea.

“John,” Sherlock’s voice held more concern that John had ever heard before. He bolted into the sitting area, his eyes fixing instantly on the television set where Molly Hooper was tied to a chair and a disembodied voice made clear the game they were being invited to play. 

“That answers that question,” John says when the video finally ends.

“Question?” Sherlock asks, turning to look at John with confusion.

“’Can you find me before I get her?’ I’ve been trying to figure out if we’d be able to identify who the ‘her’ was before another victim popped up. Now we know who she is,” John explained.

“We’ve got three days, John.”


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 6

The taste of your skin, a slight sweetness on my tongue mixed with the saltiness of your sweat. Your neck, oh your gloriously exhilarating neck. I taste the skin, nibble and lick; move my lips to your mouth and dive in, savoring the flavor of you mixed with remnants of tea. Your damnable purple shirt, the one I swear is a size too small, is easy enough to remove. Mrs. Hudson can sew those buttons back on, don’t worry. I nibble and lick, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses along a path from your lips to your pectorals, bringing your nipples, one at a time, between my teeth and applying enough pressure to sting only to lick away the sharp pain. You taste so good to me; like apple pie a la mode after a rough day, the perfect ending. 

I continue my journey; fingers, lips, tongue, teeth caressing your skin as I trail my way to the waistband of your trousers. The button and zipper come undone quickly enough. I slide them down your hips, past your thighs and calves, off your legs completely; my fingers trailing ghostly touches as I go. Your pants, typical black silk boxer-briefs, remain. They stretch, strained at the seams a bit. I didn’t realize you’d be so well endowed. There’s a wet spot where you’ve started to leak. My mouth caresses you through your pants, tongue and lips, gentle touches. Your moans as beautiful as the sounds you make when you pass your bow across the strings of your violin. The music of your pleasure sends jolts of desire through my system, causing my already achingly hard cock to strain. I palm myself, doing my best to keep from coming simply from the noises you make and the way your beautiful face shows every bit of intense pleasure.

“John,” the huskiness of your voice as you moan my name causes me to release a moan of my own. God, I have never wanted anyone as badly as I want you in this moment. I slide your pants off of you and stand back a moment, eyes roaming over every visible inch of your porcelain skin. There are no words to describe just how absolutely beautiful you truly are. I may try, but I will never be able to fully convey how you look to me. 

I return to you, my lips instantly seeking out your hard cock, steel encased in velvet, and I mouth at the head. I allow my tongue to dip into your leaking slit, the texture and flavor of pre-cum is unlike anything I’ve tried before. It’s so different, and if it were anyone but you, I would never have gotten this far; but because it’s you, it is the most wonderful thing. I slide my lips along your shaft, allowing your tip to brush against my palate. You writhe and moan beneath me, my fingers digging into your hips to hold them steady. I know this won’t last. 

I release you with a vulgar ‘pop’ sound and immediately slip two fingers into my mouth. I lather them with spit, making sure they are sufficiently drenched before I pull you back into my mouth and continue my ministrations. I trail my fingers along your scrotum, tickling each ball in your sac before venturing further and applying the slightest pressure to your perineum. Your moans increase in volume and your legs spread further apart. I’m distantly aware of your hands being placed under your knees, holding your legs up and away, allowing me more access.

“Please, John,” you moan and somehow I know exactly what you want.

I tease your hole, going over the different muscles I’ve ventured across in my journey. Your hole puckers and my spit slicks it bit by bit until I can sink one in to the first knuckle. You let out a slight hiss and I pause, but your hips gyrating, pushing into me, has me pushing forward. I sink my finger deeper into you, thrusting in and pulling out, curving my finger, trying to find that bundle of nerves. I slide my finger out completely, pushing back in with two. I curve my fingers and know I’ve hit your prostate when your head is thrown back into your pillow and the deep, guttural moan you release coincides with the clenching of your external sphincter and the pulsing of your internal sphincter. 

My mouth continues to tease and slide along your prick and my fingers teasing your prostate, pushing in and pulling out at a steady pace. I’ve lost all track of time, my mind can only focus on pleasuring you. A sharp tug at my hair and I know you’re close; I know you’re trying to warn me, but I want it. I suck harder, hollowing my cheeks and pushing down enough that I can feel your tip brushing against the back of my throat. I do my best to hold back the gagging. I swallow and you scream, cumming down my throat as your entire body convulses with your release. I can feel your hole clenching my fingers, your fingers tangled in my short, military cut. I don’t release until it’s already happening, but I cum without any stimulation other than the ethereal beauty that is you when you are in the throws of passion so intense your body releases the endorphins and your entire being trembles and quakes with your release. I know my pants and jeans will need to be washed soon, but for now, I’m happy to lay here with my arms around you, my face buried in your abdomen and your sated cock brushing against my neck with each breath. 

John bolted up into a seated position, his breathing labored and his heart beating in earnest. It had been at least a decade since he’d had a wet dream so intense he ejaculated without even touching himself and he cleaned up meticulously. It had been a full twelve hours since Sherlock had disappeared. He was sure Sherlock was hunting down Molly and the arsonist, but John couldn’t keep his mind from wandering to the damage Sherlock could unwittingly do himself. The man was a hurricane on the best of days.

He looked around his sparsely furnished bedroom, the four drawer chest with nothing adorning the top, the simple mirror screwed to the door of the closet, the sturdy queen-sized bed with no head or foot board. It all remained the same as before he’d dozed off. It took him a moment to realize what it was that had changed. His location. He’d fallen asleep on the couch. How had he ended up in his bedroom. 

He rose from the bed, military training dictating he remake the bed to its precise hospital-like corners, and pulled his dressing robe from the hook on the back of his door. He pulled it on before venturing from his room. At the top of the stairs, he paused. Muffled voices could be heard from the sitting room, Sherlock and someone he couldn’t identify. He edged his way down the stairs, avoiding the ones that creaked and keeping his steps light and measured. 

“Oh, John, you’re up,” Sherlock spoke before he’d even made it to the bottom of the stairs. 

John shook his head and continued down the stairs as he normally would. He moved to the door to the sitting area and glanced into the room. The television turned on accounted for the unidentifiable voice he’d heard.

“You’re back.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock rolled his eyes and John couldn’t stop the slight grin that spread across his face. Sherlock was back to his normal self. “Rest well?”

“I did. Tea?”

“Yes.”

It seemed to be a normal enough conversation. John moved into the kitchen and set about preparing tea for the both of them. As he moved from one place to another, gathering the tea bags, which seemed to be located in a different place every time he made tea, tea cups and setting the kettle to boil, he considered the best way to go about asking where Sherlock had been without seeming to be as worried about his flat mate as he actually was. Of course, Sherlock was the master of deductions, so he’d see through any front John attempted, but it didn’t stop him from doing his absolute best to not let his true feelings show. So far, he seemed to be doing admirably, but that didn’t mean Sherlock wasn’t aware. It was quite possible Sherlock knew exactly what John was feeling and simply ignored it as he would any other ‘dull’ or ‘unnecessary’ thing.

“John,” the close proximity of Sherlock’s voice startled John enough that he nearly dropped the tea cup he held. 

He placed it on the counter and turned to look up into Sherlock’s grey-blue eyes. He did his best to hide the gulp, but the movement of Sherlock’s eyes let him know he’d caught it; though he didn’t comment. John raised a brow, his lips forming a slight frown of question when Sherlock didn’t say anything more.

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“We have eighteen hours left. We need to find her,” and John became aware of the slight trepidation hidden beneath the cold mask. Sherlock was worried they wouldn’t find Molly in time. They’d followed riddle after riddle since the very first, finding a new riddle at each location. Every riddle written in a code that needed to be cracked before it could be solved.

John raised a hand, paused, then gently placed it on Sherlock’s forearm. “You’ll figure it out, Sherlock. You always do.”

Sherlock nodded once, a barely there gesture, before returning to the sitting area. The moment was gone much to quick for John’s liking, but he knew there were far more important things to be concerned with at the moment; namely, finding Molly Hooper before her brilliant, but not as brilliant as Sherlock, mind was lost to the world forever. 

The kettle let out a shrill whistle and John turned to continue making their tea. He placed Sherlock’s on the table in front of him and sat in his chair with his own cup. There was a scrap of paper on the table and he leaned forward and snatched it up. Another code, this one John actually recognized. 

“Let’s all gather at the river?” John asked and Sherlock bolted up right on the couch, his eyes wide as he stared at John. “What?”

“You know what it says?” Sherlock asked, his voice filled with disbelief.

“You don’t?” John returned, his tone matching Sherlock’s. “You’re the most brilliant man I know and you haven’t translated this?”

Sherlock shook his head, trying to wrap his brain around the fact that John translated the code before he could figure it out. “How?”

“I,” John paused, thinking about how he knew about this particular code. It wasn’t often he talked about how deep his interest in unsolved cases went, but this particular case remained unsolved even after all these years and John had studied the ciphers the murder had used with a passion he’d never had before. He’d recognized the code the second his eyes had landed on it. “Ever hear of the Zodiac killer?”

Sherlock shook his head. If he had, it had been something he’d deleted a long time ago, something not worth remembering. He stared blankly at John, waiting for him to continue.

“This is the code for the first letter he sent to brag about what he had done. I figured that sort of unsolved mystery would have you busy for at least three days.”

“Deleted,” Sherlock stated with a monotone voice. “The river?”

“Yes, the river. Thames?”

Sherlock gave a sharp nod, standing and moving to the door. He pulled his coat and scarf on before turning to look back at John. “Coming?”

John moved quickly, pulling his coat and shoes on before hurrying out of the flat after Sherlock.

***

An empty warehouse stood approximately five yards from the Thames surrounded by overgrown lots. The windows, or what was left of them, were covered in years of grime and the doors, well, doorways, looked as though they’d crumble at any moment. None of this had ever stopped Sherlock and John before, so it certainly wouldn’t stop them now. This had to be where the arsonist was keeping Molly. There wasn’t enough time left to crack another code and solve another riddle. 

“Ready?” Sherlock turned to John, the message behind those eyes clear. John nodded and they entered the building, silent as they could.

It took them ten minutes to locate the room Molly was being kept in. Another five for John to untie the knots that bound her wrists behind the chair. Another seven for them to make it out of the maze of rooms to the center of the warehouse. It was then that the smell of smoke hit their senses. John and Sherlock looked at each other, slight annoyance in their features, as Molly looked between the two with absolute terror in her eyes.

“I see you’ve found her,” the voice came from the shadows behind them, muffled and intentionally changed to be unidentifiable.


	8. Chapter 8

An inferno raged around the trio, John and Sherlock both doing their best to protect Molly from the blaze. It seemed as though every possible escape route had been blocked, the fire building faster than John had ever though possible. The man had run from the warehouse, maniacal laughter floating around them just after he’d set the place ablaze. 

“Sherlock?” Molly asked and John had a momentary desire to roll his eyes. It wasn’t like there was much that either he or Sherlock could do. 

“John, do you have anything?” Sherlock looked over his shoulder towards John.

John’s gaze flitted about the room taking everything in with the help of the orange tinted light. The room they were in had three doors and no windows. The ceilings in each room had been left off due to the cover the warehouse provided. All the doors were inaccessible. John jerked his head upwards, trailing his eyes over everything above them and… There.

“Sherlock, can you lift Molly??” John asked, turning towards the other two. Sherlock raised a brow and shrugged. “I need you to try, Sherlock. I’m not tall enough for this. I need you to lift her as high as you can, steady her on your shoulders if you have to,” the fire inched closer, a sheen of sweat sprouting on their skin as they raced against the clock. “Molly, once he has you up there, I need you to reach for the chain. Can you see it?” Molly nodded, her head tilted up as her eyes locked with the chain dangling a fair way above their heads. “Grab it and pull, Molly, with everything you’ve got. You can do this.”

****

“You had it all figured out before you asked me,” it wasn’t a question, John knew Sherlock better than that. What was implied was ’why didn’t you just do something?’; but Sherlock had never been easy to figure out. He wouldn’t be Sherlock Holmes if he were.

“I had the utmost faith in your abilities as a soldier, John.” Sherlock was treated to a blank stare, “and a contingency plan.”

John couldn’t stop the soft chuckle that escaped. Only Sherlock. He glanced over to where Molly was being treated for, thankfully, minor burns. Apparently the sick man had enjoyed a bit of branding while he’d had her tied up. It was something they hadn’t focused much on, other than the cursory inspection John had given her when they’d found her. Their goal was to get her out and away as fast as possible.

Of course, well laid plans seldom go as hoped. The man had shown up, set the warehouse ablaze, and they’d had to climb nearly a hundred feet to the ceiling of the warehouse before scuttling along the rafters to an outer edge that hadn’t caught fire yet. Molly lost her footing a few times, but between Sherlock and John, they were all able to make it out safely. The man hadn’t been found, yet.

“Figures,” John let out on a breath.

“What does that mean?” Sherlock tilted his head and John just chuckled and shook his.

“Nothing, Sherlock. Just, lets go home, yeah?” Sherlock nodded and they moved towards the police line.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade’s voice rose above the other emergency personnel, betraying both his concern and relief. “Got a minute?”

Sherlock and John stopped, turning to Lestrade as he strode up to them. They took turns shaking his hand and a brief moment explaining their sides of what happened; Sherlock pointing out a scar across the perpetrators face John had missed and John pointing out the color of his eyes (green). They both agreed he had dark hair cut high and tight; though the color wasn’t completely apparent in the dark of the warehouse and he’d made his escape while they were still partially blinded by the sudden flare of the flames. Lestrade assured them that they’d catch him; Sherlock had his doubts, but that wasn’t unusual. 

They paused at an ambulance, waiting for the paramedic to step back from Molly before they advanced. Each wrapped her in a quick hug, asking how she was doing. Even though they were both eager to get home and out of their smoke scented clothes, they spent another twenty minutes making sure Molly was well tended to. After all, it wasn’t her fault she’d been drug into the game.

“Ready?” Sherlock asked, earning a strange look from John as he shook his head slowly. 

“Yeah, let’s go home,” John gave him a soft smile.

Sherlock lead the way to the main road and flagged down a cab. It didn’t take long for them to be on their way back to 221B Baker Street and John was just beginning to dose when Sherlock nudged his sharp elbow into John’s side. John jerked upright, ready to question Sherlock but stopped immediately when he saw the look in Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock glanced to the cabbie and John’s eyes followed, making sure to calmly lay his head back against Sherlock’s shoulder as if he’d woken up due to a dream. As soon as his eyes landed on the rear view mirror, he had to fight to keep them from bulging.

“We’ve been going in the wrong direction for fifteen minutes. I’ve already managed to text Lestrade,” Sherlock whispered to him and John mumbled an okay, hoping it would come out as sleepy sounding gibberish that Sherlock would be able to understand. Sherlock smiled softly at him, brushing a quick kiss to his temple.

All in the name of keeping him from finding out that we’re not on to him, John reminded himself as his breathing hitched and a light flush coated his cheeks. Such a shame that I react to him no matter the situation.

The cab came to a stop near an abandoned three story brick home. The houses on either side seemed in as much disrepair as the one the man had his eyes set on. A cursory glance along the street showed no signs of life. The man turned in his seat, his face set in a sinister smile and a Glock 17 pointed directly at his passengers. 

“I do believe we have arrived. If you’d be so kind,” he tilted the Glock towards the rear passenger side door, the side John sat on. “Both of you.”

John pushed the door open and exited the car, Sherlock close on his heals. The man climbed from the drivers seat, Glock still pointed towards the two men. They headed towards the abandoned home, the Glock a constant in the back of their minds. 

“Now,” the man said as he ushered them into sitting room. There was minimal furniture, making the two hard-backed chairs that sat back to back stand out. “Take a seat, gentlemen.”

He tied them together, double-checking the knots before he stood to his full height. Auburn hair, John noted absentmindedly as he wriggles his wrists in an attempt to check the flexibility and give of their bindings. He paid no mind to the rumbling voice that paced around them as his fingers fumbled with the ropes, occasionally brushing against Sherlock’s.

The man finally stopped talking and made his way to the open-arched passage from the foyer to the sitting room. He turned back to them one more time. “It’s a shame, really, Mr. Holmes. I thought I’d finally found someone worth my time. Too bad you’re no better than anyone else on this God forsaken planet. It was fun, for a while.” 

He turned and left the room. A moment later, the smell of smoke drifted to them and John had to bite down hard on the panic that rose in his chest. He had to get Sherlock out of there. 

“John,” Sherlock’s voice was quiet, barely audible above the sound of John’s own harsh breathing. “Can you get out of these ropes?”

John shook his head, mumbling a ‘no’ as he continued to struggle. His right index finger caught in a loop he’d previously missed in his explorations and a bit of tugging freed Sherlock’s wrists enough for the thin man to slip his arms free. He stood abruptly, turning instantly and began to struggle with John’s bindings.

“Go,” John wheezed, the increasing smoke making it harder to breath. Sirens could be heard getting closer and John knew Lestrade and the rest of the Met would be there soon. He had to get Sherlock out of the house before he couldn’t get through the flames that John could see licking around the entrance. “Go, Sherlock. Get out, now.”

“Not without you,” Sherlock hissed. 

He made a triumphant noise and John felt the ropes come loose. He pulled his hands back to his front, briefly rubbing against the raw skin there before turning and shoving Sherlock towards the window. He grabbed one of the chairs and threw it at the window, making a frustrated noise when it merely cracked but the chair broke apart. Sherlock picked up one of the legs and started bashing at the window, knocking the glass free and breaking apart anything that could harm them as they made their escape. The flames grew, the increase in oxygen allowing them a feeding frenzy. 

“John,” Sherlock coughed, pushing John towards and through the window. 

John turned to pull Sherlock through only to stop dead in his tracks. The man had returned, a shard of glass pressed into Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock stared at John, a resigned look in his eyes. There was a spark of pride there that John couldn’t understand, but Sherlock would never let him know that he was happy he’d gotten John out and wasn’t the least concerned with himself. 

John dove back through the window just as Lestrade and Donovan rounded the corner, guns drawn. John’s compact body barreled straight into Sherlock and the man, knocking them both down. He recovered himself and picked Sherlock up, shoving him out the window just as the shard of glass was driven into his back, just to the right of his spine. He dropped to the floor, pain blossoming out, Sherlock’s name a gasp as his world turned black.


	9. Chapter 9

John slowly became aware of a beeping to the side of him as the pain in his head pulsed along with the aggravating sound. He released a low groan, barely registering the pressure on his hand as it increased for a moment before disappearing completely. He cracked an eye open and closed it immediately. It was far to bright. There was movement and he listened intently to the sound of a chair scuffling backwards and the thunk of shoed feet along tile before there was a barely audible flick and the brightness behind his closed lids dimmed.

“John?” Sherlock kept his voice low, leaning close to John so he wouldn’t have to strain to hear. “Can I get you anything?”

John let out another groan, cracking his eyes open so he could see Sherlock’s face hovering over his. For once the blank mask was gone, the concern mixed with a surprising amount of affection lingered in Sherlock’s eyes as John took in his best friend. He reached up, straining through the light tinge of pain, to rest his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, a ghost of a smile playing across his lips as the other man visibly relaxed, little as it was. 

Sherlock’s eyes trailed up and down John’s prone form, eyes narrowing around the medical wrap covering his abdomen. When he brought his eyes up to meet John’s again, they softened. “How do you feel?”

John’s voice cracked a bit and he attempted to clear his throat, but the dryness caused a dull ache. Sherlock immediately reached to his side, his hands moving back into John’s line of sight with a small cup and a straw. He held the cup steady, pressing the straw to John’s chapped lips. John released a barely audible grunt of appreciation as he drew the straw into his mouth and took a long, slow sip. His sigh was filled with relief and his next attempt at speech went much better than his first.

“What happened?” Sherlock raised a brow and John rolled his eyes. “I mean, last I remember is getting you out…”

Sherlock cut in with an annoyed glare. “A stupid thing for you to do. I had it under control, John.”

John growled in annoyance, forcing his aching body into a sitting position and swatting Sherlock’s hands away as he attempted to force John back down. “You had no such thing, Sherlock. He could have… would have killed you. Do you ever consider how your actions affect those around you,” he held a hand up to stop Sherlock’s retort, “and don’t give me that crap about sentiment and ineffectual behavior, Sherlock. Your actions have consequences. Did it ever occur to you that I wouldn’t know what to do if you weren’t here?”

The silence that fell about them was suffocating. John had said more than he’d intended and it had startled them both to a prolonged pause. They stared at each other, Sherlock with open amazement and John with undisguised self-loathing. 

I’ve done it now, he thought to himself, he’ll want me gone. He looked down to where his hands were curled into fists in his lap, his entire body sagging with acceptance and defeat.

The brush of fingers against his neck, running up and along his jawbone until they were planted firmly beneath his chin brought John out of his internal reprimanding. He met Sherlock’s gaze with a grim determination, ready to bite back at anything that was thrown at him. His breath caught when in Sherlock’s eyes, instead of disgust and annoyance, he saw something akin to love; stronger than the light shades of affection that had shown through when he’d first come to. 

“Sherlock?” his name little more than a whisper on John’s lips before they were silence with the slight brush of a thumb. 

Sherlock leaned forward a bit, holding back just enough to allow John to pull away should he want to; but that wasn’t what John wanted at all. He leaned into Sherlock, pushing forward until their lips connected in a light stroke; his bottom lip just barely brushing against the crease between Sherlock’s. A hum of appreciation echoed through the otherwise silent room and then Sherlock’s lips were pressed more firmly to his own. A light moan escaped John as his arms came up to wrap around Sherlock, his fingers tangling themselves in raven curls.

The beeping to the side increased and a muffled chuckle escaped the both of them as they pulled apart far enough to properly look at each other. A nurse rushed into the room a moment later and stopped in her tracks as she took in Sherlock perched on the edge of John’s bed, their arms wrapped around each other. She gave a disapproving click of her tongue, but the look in her eyes showed a fondness that a nurse shouldn’t have for a patient. 

“It’s good to see you awake, Dr. Watson. I’ll give you a moment more, there are tests that need to be run,” she turned and left the room, a quiet giggle following in her wake.

***

“He never left your side, you know,” Cheryl said as she wheeled John back into his room.

“Sherlock?” he asked, looking up over his shoulder at her.

She nodded, a smile playing across her lips as she took in the now empty room. John hadn’t been surprised that Mycroft had provided him with a private room. It wasn’t the first time one of them had wound up in hospital, and Mycroft seemed to pull strings every chance he got. The fact that John had been in for going on three weeks, or so he’d been told, made no difference. Mycroft would foot the bill and Sherlock and John would go about as they always had. 

“It took some convincing to get him to leave to shower and get a bit of rest while we ran the tests. I’m surprised he’s not here now,” she looked around again, a quizzical expression on her face. 

“I was slightly off on my timing,” the velvety, baritone voice came from behind them causing Cheryl to jump a bit and turn quickly enough she bumped the wheelchair John sat in. He turned as best he could and took in Sherlock standing in the doorway looking refreshed. “Sorry I was away so long. I wanted to be here when you returned.”

John shrugged, pushing himself up and grunting a bit with the effort. Sherlock moved quickly, crossing the room in three long strides and wrapping his arms under John’s shoulders to help him hoist himself back into his bed. Cheryl moved the chair and did a brief check to make sure everything was still attached properly before leaving with a stern look between the two men.

“Behave,” she pointed at each of them in turn.

John chuckled and Sherlock smirked, neither promising anything. When the door clicked shut, Sherlock immediately climbed into John’s bed, wrapping his arms around his waist as gently as he could. John rolled his eyes affectionately and pulled Sherlock closer, tightening his grip to show that he was fine.

“Dr. Smythe said two more days and you can come home,” Sherlock mumbled into the hospital gown draped over John’s compact frame.

“Good. Home sounds good,” John smiled, pressing a kiss to the top of Sherlock’s head.

***

“John,” Sherlock groaned, pushing against John’s chest a bit as he tried to increase the fractional space between their bodies. “You shouldn’t be moving about so much. What if you reopen the wound?”

“Sherlock,” John grumbled, pushing forward so he could brush the tip of his nose along the skin of Sherlock’s neck. “It’s been a month since I was released, you where there when they took the stitches out. I’ve held back all this time because I know you worry, though you don’t like to admit it,” he ignored Sherlock’s glare and continued, “but I’ll be damned if I’m going to continue to hold off when I’m perfectly capable now. If you can tell me with absolute honesty that you don’t want this, then I’ll stop.” He pulled back and looked up at Sherlock, biting back a smile at the turmoil of want and concern rolling around like storm clouds behind those icy eyes.

Sherlock groaned, closing his eyes and slumping his shoulders in defeat. John shivered in delight, pressing himself closer and brushing his lips along Sherlock’s neck and collarbone. Finally, he thought as he ran his fingers up along the silk covered contours of Sherlock’s body. A light moan slipped from Sherlock’s lips as John squirmed his way closer. Sharing a bed for so long and being denied baser instincts and desires had put them both on edge. It wouldn’t last long, but there would be time, later, for them to fully explore each other. 

Sherlock rolled, pulling John on top of him and grinding his hips up. Their clothed erections brushed and both men moaned as they rutted against each other in determined abandon. One swift motion relieved John of his vest and John retaliated by digging his fingers into Sherlock’s shirt and flinging the sides apart. The tinkle of plastic buttons connecting with walls and furniture was muffled by Sherlock’s amused groan.

“Mrs. Hudson,” John breathed, unable to get more out as another satisfied groan left him when Sherlock pushed up, grinding his hardened cock against John’s scrotum and brushing the tip against his perineum. Their pajama bottoms were officially in the way and they wrestled to get them off of themselves and each other, giggling all the while. 

“Yes,” Sherlock hissed as their bared cocks came into contact. 

It was quick and messy, saliva and teeth and tongue; fingers and palms caressing sweat-slicked skin as they rutted against each other. Pre-ejaculate coating their cocks as their breathing became more labored and their lips and bodies collided again and again until they were reduced to a writhing panting mess as their completion pulsed between them, sticky and satisfying. 

Afterwards, they lay entangled in each other, John’s cheek pressed to Sherlock’s chest. A content sigh escaped him as his fingers idly brushed along the porcelain skin beneath him. His entire body froze as words rose in his mind, never considered, never given life. Sherlock shifted beneath him, as though reading his thoughts.

“I love you, too,” he whispered, his lips brushing against John’s temple and everything was fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be honest, I'm not very happy with the way this fic turned out. I'm not sure this will be alive for much longer. I think I'll leave it till the end of NaNo and see how it did.


End file.
